The Price of Loyalty
by HuntedRanger
Summary: Steve Rogers woke to the 21st century- alone. When he began to get nightmares of his friend, Bucky Barnes, he clung to them as a memory of the world he once knew. He didn't realize that those dreams- the result of the choice made long ago by a stranger to our world- were real. Set between Avengers 1 and TWS, warning for violence, thematic images, slight language. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: Hello! alright, this is the first chapter of my big fic! i've been working a good long while on this, but its finally finished! i will upload chapters regularly, at least once if not twice a week. please be generous with reviews!**

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 _I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day_

 _What hours, O what black hours we have spent_

 _This night! What sights you, heart, saw; what ways you went!_

 _And more must, in yet longer light's delay._

 _With witness I speak this. But where I say_

 _Hours I mean years, mean life. and my lament_

 _Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent_

 _To dearest him that lives alas! away_

 _I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree_

 _Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;_

 _Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse._

 _Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see_

 _The lost are like this, and their scrouge to be_

 _As I am mine, their sweating selves, but worse._

 _Gerard Manley Hopkins_

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 _When she had met them, they were young. They had flitted past her, so swiftly she had almost not noticed, distant shadows on the edges of her consciousness. She knew nothing, trapped as she was in the crude machines of the red-skulled-man who thought he could control her. Who had ripped her energy, her power from her consciousness. She hated him. Oh, she hated him with a passion for the things he had made her do against innocents. And in her secret depths she had mourned for them. Had nursed her hope that a time could come when she could free herself from his torture. And yet, before that had happened, she had met them._

 _These two young men. The soldier who had shielded his country from harm. The fighter who had been shot down, defenseless in the hands of his enemies. She had met them both, one in his victorious fall, the other in his tortured rise. She had tried to save them. Had hoped that by helping them, they could help each other._

 _But there was nothing that she could do but watch them suffer._

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 **Chapter 1: The Pain of the Dead**

" _Vex not his ghost. Oh let him pass! He hates him that would upon the cruel rack of this world stretch him out the longer." ~King Lear_

 _Present day…_

Deep dark swirled into a sense of consciousness, and a strange awareness. It was so bitterly cold that Steve could feel ice crackling in his eyebrows as he opened his eyes. He was alone, standing in a bare, empty room with walls of cold stone and a door of heavy black metal. Swirling snow sifted through air vents. All his senses went into automatic defensive mode as he pulled himself to his feet. He was not in his uniform, just a worn set of civvies. His hands flew through his pockets and belt loops, searching for and failing to find any sign of his usual tools or weapons. Even the omnipresent shield was gone, its absence signaled by a cold empty ache in his back. A sense of vulnerability. He turned, gaze darting about for an explanation for his sudden and unexplained presence here.

Before he could search for a method of escape, a sudden sound of heavy boots and shouting voices broke the stillness.

 _Must have captured me somehow; think tactics. They expect to find me right away. Make that tough. Find a place for momentary seclusion, then catch them off their guard._ Action accompanied thought as he turned, searching for some cover. He found it behind the heavy metal desk that lay, broken in two pieces, in the corner. The heavy boots, punctuated by a strange thudding, grunting sound, halted outside the door. He leapt behind the cover of the desk.

Barely had he managed to squeeze his large frame into place before the door slammed open, and a knot of struggling, swearing men appeared. Steve peered through the gaps of the desk's legs, eyes narrowed as he watched one dark-haired man, obviously weak if not outright wounded, stumble in supported by two other men. Despite barely being able to walk on his own, he was thrusting himself from side to side, growling curses in multiple languages. Steve could discern enough to identify some French, German and English. It was difficult, as the man's voice was slurred, but not in a drunken way. _Heavily sedated then, but obviously fighting it._ Steve shifted his weight, trying to get in a better position to go on attack the moment his absence was noted. His hand dropped to grip the side of the desk half, ready to flip it up as a makeshift shield in a second.

"Получить его связали! Если он ломает свободно от этой ячейки будет дурдом." One of the guards snapped at four or five other guards who followed behind, a fresh-faced lieutenant standing grimly in the fore. Steve winced, trying to recall what Russian he knew to the forefront of his mind. The prisoner, who apparently understood better than he did, suddenly yanked himself to the side, leaning his all of his weight on the left arm of one guard. The guard, thrown off balance by the sudden pressure of a 190 lb. man practically sitting on his weaker arm, stumbled and nearly lost his grip. The prisoner followed up on his advantage, kicking the guard's knee in and springing forward. Before Steve's shout of warning could leave his throat, the frazzled lieutenant (who looked as though he did not want to be the one in charge today) aimed a small bar at the prisoners back and pressed a button. A burst of electricity, suspiciously similar to a toned-down Hydra blast, hit the prisoner's shoulder and knocked him unconscious. He fell full length to the floor, twisting as he did so to land on his side.

Steve, already on his feet, leapt forward to get between the fallen man and his pursuers when a sudden electric force struck his chest, knocking him into the wall. He fell back, head spinning, and wondering how long the lieutenant's shot would have effect and how many seconds he had to brace himself before the guards attacked.

No one came close to him though; they were all focused on dragging the man off of the ground and tying him tightly to a thick metal chair that had been securely bolted to a square metal pillar. Steve pulled himself back to his feet and started forward again. The same blast from nowhere threw him back in a crumpled heap, even though these time he was sure no one had fired at him. No one had looked at him, answered him, and in any way had shown that they knew he was here. He was straightening up slowly, groaning at the pain, when a sudden animalistic roar froze him into place.

The prisoner, conscious again, had wrenched one arm free and had shot his guard 6 feet backwards into the wall with a battering-ram punch. He turned, grabbing and breaking another enemy's wrist against the pillar. He shot a kick in the lieutenant's direction and half stood, his metal arm-

Steve blinked. Metal. Arm. _Metal._

He wasn't seeing things. The torn shirt clearly showed bright sliver metal, whirring, clanking and grinding, as it extended up the man's arm to his shoulder. The plates clicked into place as the man dislocated third guard's shoulder with a single, powerful wrench.

"Stun him! Stun him, now!" Roared the lieutenant desperately from his frazzled half- upside down position on the floor (Steve didn't even realize he understood the strange language). A young-faced guard in the back, sobbing in terror, scrabbled at his belt and pulled out a second cylinder, which he fired at the raging man's back. The prisoner jerked in pain as a burst of blue energy enveloped him, sucked the air from his lungs and drove him, gasping and almost unconscious to his knees. The few men left relatively un-broken wasted no time. They dragged him back, threw him haphazardly into the chair and proceeded to tie him down so tightly that Steve's chest ached at the thought of it.

He himself had risen to his feet, his eyes flicking around the room. He stretched out one hand and stepped forward. Within a few feet, his fingers encountered a smooth, ice-like wall, so clear he couldn't tell it was in front of him. Only when he pressed against it did electric sparks crackle in his hand, leaving it stiff and numb. He couldn't take more than 5 steps forward. Nor, apparently was he visible to anyone else in the room. Instead, he was free to stand there, choking on his anger as he helplessly watched the man groan against the pain of his bonds being yanked inhumanely tight.

Then the nightmare got ten times worse.

As the guards finished their task and ran for the door, the lieutenant, brave again now that his enemy was bound hand and foot, swaggered forward and backhanded him viciously across the face. The man jerked, grunting as the blow thrust his face to the side. His overlong and shaggy hair almost concealed the trickle of blood that streaked his cheek.

"That's what you get for fighting, American!" the lieutenant sneered in badly accented English.

"At least I'm brave enough to fight a man standing on his own two feet." The prisoner growled in a strangely familiar husky voice. The lieutenant snarled and raised his fist again.

The man threw his head up defiantly and Steve's heart screeched a grinding halt.

Square jaw covered in bruises, cuts and stubble, set in defiance. Pale skin, dark hair flopped messily over a broad forehead. Piercing blue eyes, hard as shards of ice, a sniper's focus, a fighter's calculation, a rebel's glare -

" _Bucky!"_ he screamed, leaping forward.

He was still screaming when he jerked awake, alone in his dark bedroom, fists clenching the blankets of his bed.

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 **There we go! Next chapter will be up on Sunday. Please Comment and Review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Sorry. Uh...college student?**

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 _The moment she met the soldier, she had heard his strength._ _Trapped in the iron claws of the infernal Valkyrie, she could do nothing but sit there, in full consciousness what her power was making the Red Skulled Demon capable of. So many would die….so many…it was not for this that she had been made._

 _And here was the soldier. The greatest of his kind: she had seen his strength before, in other men. She had known hearts like this: pure, good, honest. When the blow had burst apart her cage she leapt forward, falling to the floor. Before she could act the Red Demon took her in his hand, holding her aloft. She could feel his weak and ineffectual will striving with her, trying to draw her power into himself. Her battle scream burst out louder than the roar of his mocker of a Valkyrie. Her power blasted out, engulfing him in flame until he had vanished and she herself had fallen through the planes' floor to the deep, peaceful depths of the ocean._

 _Yet she had not forgotten the soldier. Before she left she had sped her power to him, blasting throughout the entire interior of the plane until she had found him, blasted back onto the floor. She had not meant to be so rough. She curled up in the back of his mind, quiet, touching nothing, waiting for an understanding of what was to happen._

 _She wanted to know if this hero would survive._

 _As he fell from the heights of the sky to mountains of ice, she knew that he would not. And her mourning matched that of the woman who sobbed his name through the communication device._

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Chapter 2: The Taste of Memory

 _"_ _Is there any hiding place into which the fear of death cannot enter? What repose in life is so well fortified and secluded in such a high place that pain cannot intimidate it?"~ Seneca_

Cold mist and sweat left a cool, soothing feeling on Steve's hot skin. He let his aching legs pound to a jagged stop on the gritty asphalt and bent over, his panting lungs burning, the blood pounding in his head.

His sweaty hands on his knees, he looked out over the soft morning light which made even the sleeping D.C. landscape look calm and peaceful. The hour before the morning rush had just begun. Comparative stillness calmed Steve's mind which was even now choking on a racing newsreel of images.

He sighed, sat down at the foot of a tree, and pulled a notebook and a pen from the small pocket in his jacket. A pleasant sensation of relief filled his aching muscles. Glancing over the city-scape, he began to sketch the light coming over the buildings.

Anything to forget the nightmare that had come yet again.

The cell was gone. He stood in a white room full of strange computers and medical equipment. He turned in place, scanning the room warily. On one side a table stood, filled with strange gleaming tools and what seemed like watch parts and thin metal wires. A second table on the other side was covered with sectioned trays, filled with syringes. Some were full of clear liquid, some deep, thick red like blood, others roiling, pulsing a sick, energized blue light. In the middle of the room was a flat, raised table, thick straps dangling from the edges, a bank of computers at its head.

The door slid open and a bevy of white-coated doctors entered. Lights flickered on. No one paid the slightest bit of attention to Steve. Cautiously he stretched out one hand until, less than two feet in front of him, the air began to spark and snap. He pulled his hand back quickly and waited. He couldn't help being curious, despite the sick sense of screaming intuition.

The door slid open again. A guard walked in, his gun held securely at the ready. Three men followed. Two were guards, on either side of a third- Steve started.

 _Bucky._

Bucky's chin was raised defiantly. He strode in, steady, and halted a few feet from the door, face going white as he caught sight of the table. His hands were cuffed behind his back, but his shoulders began to heave slightly.

"Prep him." a grizzled- haired doctor ordered curtly, in the same tone he would have ordered a tardy assistant to fetch him a coffee. The guards tried to maneuver Bucky forward, but he stood there, planted in place as firmly as if he was an oak of 50 years. They yanked on him, shouting curse words angrily while he resisted with a defiant refusal to move forward One. Blasted _. Inch._

Bucky snarled a curse in Romanian.

They finally had to physically drag him onto the table, forcing his stiff limbs into place by brute strength as they tied him down. There was a lot of trouble when it came to un-cuffing and binding his hands.

"Fight them, Bucky!" Steve murmured, his helpless fists clenched tightly at his side. "Keep fighting them!"

Bucky lay there silently, staring at the ceiling, his jaw working.

"Apply the cleansing agent." The doctor ordered. A young orderly, sweating and biting his lip from nervousness (whether of Bucky, the soldiers, or the doctor Steve couldn't tell) approached Bucky with a clear vial. He cut back the sleeve of Bucky's shirt with a pair of surgical scissors, swabbed the skin with alcohol (so considerate! Steve snarled) and injected the unknown substance into the vein.

Bucky's hands clenched so tightly that the flesh bled and the metal screamed. Steve lurched forward and got sparked for his pains.

The Doctor bent over a computer, clicking buttons and watching a dozen red lines fluctuate. "Vitals are stable. Apply the serum."

The orderly lifted a red vial into place. Bucky shut his eyes and breathed heavily through his nose. The second the needle pierced his skin, his lips curled back over his grinding teeth. A strangled groan erupted from his chest as the red liquid pushed its pulsing way into his veins.

"What are you doing to me, you demon?" He demanded, chest heaving with harsh gasps.

"Changing the formation and structure of your tissues." The doctor stated distractedly- in English for a wonder. "If this works – which it should, unless your body rejects the activation process- your body will be twice as strong, fast and agile as that of a regular man. Your coordination and muscle memory will increase by 40%, your sight and hearing by approximately 30%."

Bucky's face went from white to grey in a second. He looked almost dead.

"Why, for the love of Heaven, would you want that?" He asked, words as slow and clipped as if recited by a machine.

The doctor, preparing an electric blue syringe, crooked a puzzled eyebrow at him.

"I? It doesn't matter what I want. It matters only what the authorities decide. Hold still; this is the activating agent. If it is unduly agitated, it will over-heat and melt you from the inside out."

"What authorities?" Bucky hissed, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

"Yours." The doctor said unfeelingly, and punched the needle into Bucky's human arm.

And Bucky's strangled groan turned to agonized screams.

 _"_ _Bucky!"_ Steve screamed, pounding his fists on the wall, not minding the electric shocks that turned them numb. " _Leave him alone! No! Bucky!"_

Bucky's screams wound through Steve's head, ripping his thoughts to pieces. He began to shake and twist in his bonds. The doctor gave a harsh angry order and the guards let forward, holding the prisoner down with all of their strength. Bucky's ragged voice rose in his pain, keening garbled words with such violence that Steve couldn't discern one from the other, although he was sure he heard, amongst others, his name being shouted again and again. He lowered his head, harsh sobs tearing his chest, tears blocking the terrible sight from his eyes. " _Bucky!"_ he shouted again, helplessly hoping that his voice could reach his friend.

The struggling suddenly slowed. Bucky's head fell back with a hard thud, his eyes glazing, screams falling into a low, helpless murmuring. Blue eyes closed, head fell to the side, body shivered all over once fitfully and went still.

"Bucky!" Steve whispered, frozen in shock. He slid heavily to his knees, bent in half, tears sliding unabashedly down his cheeks as he gathered the strength to raise his head again, looking to the familiar disheveled hair flopped over the still, bloody face. " _Bucky…no…."_

The doctor stood over Bucky, eyes fixed on the small, gleaming machine in his hand. He carefully probed Bucky's core muscles, unfeelingly nicked the skin and smeared the blood over his plastic-gloved fingers, examining it critically. Steve choked on gall.

"His vitals are stable. The serum is operational. Continue to monitor its effect." He ordered, turning off the device with a sharp click and pocketing it. He turned to the grey-grizzled man who stood nearby, his arms folded as he stood by the table of watch-components, frowning critically.

"You are clear to proceed, Comrade Menshov," He stated.

Menshov unfolded his arms and stepped forward, his fingers were unexpectedly long and nimble as they grasped Bucky's half –flesh, half metal arm. Dark liquid trickled from it onto the table, sparks hissed as he opened a blood-rusted plate on the side. Steve's shaky breath disappeared in horror.

"This is an expensive weapon to be so crudely treated" Menshov muttered, animosity sharp in his voice.

"The subject has been uncooperative." The doctor bit back. "One would have hoped, however, that the quality of your "experiment" to have stood up to the stress better."

Menshov lifted an instrument of twisted wire from the table and shot a harsh glare at the doctor. "My technological advances were not intended to create a symbiotic connection between metal and muscle resilient enough to withstand being torn out under ill-treatment. The authorities will not be pleased to hear that you are mishandling their asset."

"Until the authorities grant us permission to subdue the prisoner mentally as well as physically, we are not responsible if he tears himself to pieces. Besides, if the Asset cannot withstand a little rough handling, then he will not survive their training, let alone their missions. Hydra has wasted enough time with your research for you to raise objections to the process now."

"My work is stellar. But now that I have finally been given access to the reserve power of the Cube, I can tell you that I will be able to do what the primitive believed only their "God" could do: I shall heal the cripple." He bent back down to his work, an instrument sliding between the jagged, broken metal plates and Bucky's exposed skin. With a wrench and a pop, a plate flew aside, and blood gushed forward from an exposed mass of nerves, metal wires and strands of muscles.

"They have torn you apart." Menshov whispered, so softly that the doctor noticed nothing. But somehow Steve heard him, and he shuddered. "But I shall remake you into a new man."

He touched the instrument to a vial that glowed blue, plucked one wire from the tangle mass, applied the drop to it, and then slid it into place beside a severed nerve.

With a twist and a writhe and a flash of blue, the two strands interwove into each other until they became one: both metal and flesh. He tapped it with the instrument, but the connection held firm.

"One down." He murmured, and moved onto the next one.

Steve dropped to his knees, covering his eyes and screaming in horror until he awoke to the tangle of sheets and quilts that bound him in his own home.

...

That had been two hours ago. As soon as he could get his shaking muscles to obey him, he had gotton up, pulled on some exercise clothes, and lit out on his morning run.

Now he looked down on the city, the risen sun lighting up the onrush of the morning traffic. His eyes flickered down to the sketchbook, where his fingers had traveled on despite his mental absence.

The soft grey pencil lines were deceptively simple. The figure they depicted, lying on the hard-edged table, was despite his surroundings, almost relaxed in the tight bonds, his bloody face strangely calm and peaceful. Steve turned the page, flipping through the other drawings, the results of other restless nights: Stark and Banner laughing over their blinking computers, Nat sipping coffee by an open window, Peggy, her soft smile radiant, looking up at him from a desk covered in tactical maps. He frowned, flipping back to Bucky's picture. Bucky in turmoil, Bucky in pain, Bucky succumbing to the torment of the nightmare and the grip of death.

Whenever he had drawn his nightmares, he had rewrote their endings, creating a new story of happiness and life in place of the shadows of pain and grief. This dream, so vivid, so immediate, was different. He couldn't draw it away. Perhaps the serum was giving him some truly realistic nightmares. Had he ever felt _pain_ in a dream before?

This was a new and worrying development.

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 _The fighter. She had not known him as well as she had the soldier. She had sensed his presence once before, his struggles in captivity and his groans of pain from a far distance, only distinguishable from the cries of the other prisoners in this: he kept fighting. He fought the guards when they threw him into the prison. He fought the despair that seized his fellow soldiers. He fought the inhumane work that tried to grind him down to the last ounce of strength. His fight was why they chose him for the fat-fingered doctors experiments, those same experiments that had twisted her herself in such similar pain. Because they knew that he would fight long enough to survive them, and to be for them results. Their deliberate, calculating cruelty to his courage had made her mourn him, and she had been glad when the soldier had found him._

 _Here he was again, tied to down on the tables of the doctors'. Fighting, as usual. That is how she recognized him, this year later. They took her power, strained and polluted with their foolish ingredients and pushed it into his bloodstream, using her to strengthen him for their purpose. He screamed in pain and she was sorry, but she could not resist without killing him. And though death might seem sweeter than life to him now, she would not let a fighter who was so strong, so determined, die like this. She fled into his brain and curled up there, stretching out the softest tough to his tortured mind._

 _Rest, she pleaded. Do not be afraid. I shall not harm you. Rest. They cannot touch you when you rest._

 _He was not aware of her, lying curled up amongst the hurricane of his ravaged mind that was strained with exhaustion, sickness, despair, blood loss, lonely grief and the serum. But he fell asleep, his body relaxing and letting the serum do its bloody work. They pressed more of her power into him through his arm, and she helped, going further than their crude forcing could achieve, binding even the smallest nerves and muscle strands to the metal until everything worked perfectly. She knew he would hate it: he would have preferred to go crippled than to be made into the tool of his captors. But she also knew that his life would be easier if he could use his arm. Perhaps he could even escape. And without this arm, they would not see him as worthy of further attention. They would slay him, and his valiant fight would be forever ended._

 _I'm sorry. She whispered to his mind, restless, fighting even in sleep. But it is not time yet for you to die. You must survive._ _Keep fighting_


	3. When Memory Cries

Chapter 3: When Memory Cries.

 _"_ _Just because he killed, did he deserve to suffer this? What did you do, you wretch, to deserve watching this display?...Thank the immortal gods that you are teaching a man to be cruel who cannot learn." ~Seneca_

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 _Steve stood at the crumbled wall, looking down at Bucky sitting crouched at its foot. His sniper gun in his hands, Bucky lined up the sight and aimed carefully, holding extremely still._

 _"_ _Contend, o Lord, with those who contend with me." he murmured, the flowing words of the psalm barely distinguishable to any other than himself. "Fight against those who fight against me!"_

 _The convoy of vehicles, far below them, turned the far corner of the mountain, tires grinding on the rough snow. Bucky's gaze was steady, focused. Steve held as still as he could, watching as Bucky gaged height, wind, trajectory, speeds and angles all in a moment and settled his aim._

 _"_ _Take hold of the shield and buckler, and rise for my help! Draw the spear and javelin against my pursuers!"_

 _The car was directly under them._

 _Bucky smoothly fired in the middle of a word. The car swerved, crashed, rolled, and dropped over the edge of the cliff into nothingness._

 _Bucky lowered the gun, his face expressionless._ _His murmured voice cracked slightly._

 _"_ _Say to my soul, 'I am your deliverance!'"_

 _Steve was silent. Bucky stared down into the ravine, his laser gaze now blank and empty._

 _"_ _Under the wide and starry sky, dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, and I lay me down with a will."_

 _Bucky turned his attention to the gun in his hands. Swiftly, efficiently, his hands began to dismantle it, placing the sections piece by piece into his pack, each in their proper place, excess snow and grime wiped away. When they got back to camp he would spend an hour over them, carefully and lovingly cleansing each speck of dust away. Now, however, his face was wooden, his voice empty, as the poem continued to flow onward._

 _"_ _This be the verse ye grave for me, 'here he lies where he longed to be. Home is the sailor, home from the sea."_

 _The pack shut, he stood, swinging it onto his back. He paused, turning to look down into the gorge-turned grave once again. His shoulders were bowed._

 _"_ _And the hunter is home from the hill."_

 _"_ _You gonna be alright?" Steve asked quietly. This time seemed different from the others._

 _Bucky looked up at him, snow crusting his eyebrows. He shook his head imperceptibly._

 _"_ _It's not working this time."_

 _"_ _Go smaller." Steve said. "That's what you always told me. 'The harder it gets, the smaller you go.'"_

 _Bucky nodded, stumbling up the hill. His heavy war coat was clenched tightly around his body; he had always hated the cold. "Give me a hand with this." He grunted, heaving himself up onto the path beside Steve._

 _Steve nodded and fell into step with him. "Where do you live?"_

 _"_ _Brooklyn, New York, USA."_

 _"_ _How old are you?"_

 _"_ _27."_

 _"_ _What is your job?"_

 _"_ _Sergeant of the 107_ _th_ _Infantry Crops, US Armed Forces, member of the Howling Commando Squad."_

 _"_ _What is your name?"_

 _"_ _James Buchannan Barnes. Bucky."_

 _"_ _Who are you?"_

 _Bucky frowned at him. "Are you daft? I just told you."_

 _Steve turned to face him. "You need to tell yourself."_

 _Bucky stopped, looked at him, and then nodded slowly. "I'm Sergeant James Buchannan Barnes, son of William Barnes and Edith Buchannan. I'm known as Bucky." He blinked, the solid center of who he was creeping back into its place. "I'm Bucky."_

 _"_ _And all that that implies." Steve said, a growl of laughter in his voice. Bucky smiled in response._

 _"_ _You're enjoying this, but I remember you weren't so keen all those nights I kept you awake repeating your name and address over and over and over again so you wouldn't give into those fevers."_

 _"_ _You always said I would thank you. I told you I'd make you drink your own medicine someday."_

 _"_ _Why is it ever since you grew 3 inches taller, you seem to make paying me back for my entire existence second on your list to nothing other than being a walking flag?"_

 _"_ _4 inches."_

 _"_ _3\. Barely. In your boots."_

 _Steve cuffed him good naturedly across the shoulders. Bucky blocked the blow and sent it back with interest. Steve ducked, lunged and before the two soldiers knew it they were tussling in the snow just as they had every winter for the past 20 years._

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Steve stood in the cell, his eyes misted with memory, as broken murmurs echoed off the cold steel walls.

"My name is James, Buchanan, Barnes."

Bucky sat slumped in the chair. One white hand tied tightly to the freezing cold chair. One arm glinting metal, frozen in place by some electronic hand cuff. His undershirt was torn and bloody, his battered fatigues pants crusted with dirt. His head hung to his chest in exhaustion, his bleeding lips gasping the slow chant to himself.

"Barnes. Barnes. Barnes. Sergeant Barnes. Bucky. My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Born 1917, 107th Infantry."

Steve swallowed hard, remembering the last time he had found Bucky like this. _Strapped down on a surgical table in a Hydra incarceration ward, pale, feverish and half-alive. Barely able to recognize him._

Recitation: their secret code as kids to signal that all was not well _._ There, a few feet away, sat Bucky, obviously hurt, obviously in pain. And, somewhere right in front of Steve, some barrier he couldn't see. Frustration rose up in his chest like white hot lava and he jumped forward, smashing his shoulder into the barrio with every ounce of his strength.

 _ZING!_

Like a punch of electricity, light flashed and Steve was punched back again so hard he smashed into the wall behind him. White-hot pain lurched up throughout his body and Steve groaned to himself, slowly dragging his aching body into a sitting up position, cradling his searing arm to himself.

"Sergeant Barnes. My name is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes."

"Bucky!" Steve called out raggedly. "Bucky, can you hear me? Please, Bucky."

Nothing. The slow, halt-breathed chant, murmuring through the room and raising a chill on Steve's sweaty neck.

Steve stood up, approaching the invisible barrier. He had to get through. This was not a question. He scanned the wall, trying to discern any notable flaw that would help him get through.

Something nudged him in his mind, a sudden urge to reach out slowly. The sparks leapt to his fingers, singeing them painfully, but the intuition whispered to hold steady, to not withdraw. He waited, gritting his teeth at the small arcs of lightening that played up his wrist. Then, just as quickly as they had come, the electric arcs lowered, becoming less painful. He stepped forward cautiously, the pain growing in strength as more of his skin came in contact with the wall, but it soon accepted him, so long as he moved slowly and bore the gut-twisting pain. He took a deep breath and committed himself, stepping fully into the wall. Yanking, jolting, fiery pain seemed to split Steve apart. Sparks crackled in his hair and his teeth chattered painfully. He groaned and stepped forward again, desparate to get out of it, to get free, to rest-

Then ripping pain became peace and blessed quiet. He was lying on the floor, condensation soaking his stinging skin.

"Who's there?" groaned a ragged voice that was still half defiance. Steve pushed himself to his hands and knees and raised his blurry gaze to meet Bucky's.

Bucky's hard, wary glare furrowed in confusion, then widened in horrified shock. "Steve? No. No, please not you. They can't have taken you too!" His eyes lifted to the ceiling and suddenly he jerked forward, his face twisted in anger and fear. "Whatever you have done to him, I swear, I'll make you pay for it! Every last thing, you Russian-"a string of what was obviously curse words in several assorted languages was flung mercilessly at the silent tiles.

"Bucky!" Steve said, pushing himself to his wavering knees. "Bucky, it's alright, talk to me. What's happened to you?" Bucky's eyes snapped down to him and his hand strained against its restraints. Steve's hand flew out to reach its yearning grasp.

The second their fingers met electricity blasted through them, so strong it made the wall look like a Fourth of July sparkler.

Steve was flung back onto the floor, his heart pounding a keenly painful double time. Bucky, trapped in the metal chair, jerked and yanked, groaning loudly as the electricity jolted through him again and again, looking for a way out. Steve weakly tried to lift his head, murmuring Bucky's name ad struggling to do something – anything- to help.

"AGH! STOP IT! MAKE IT STOP!" Bucky screamed, his head smashing into the pillar convulsively. Steve crawled closer, hand raised in confusion as he tried to figure out what to do. Bucky, seeing the raised hand, twisted away, mistaking the intent and- animal like in his vicious agony- kicked out at Steve, barely missing his head.

"What are you? What are you doing? You're not Steve; Get away from me! Agh!" he screamed and twisted. His back arched in pain, electric sparks snapping in the air.

"I won't talk! You can't make me! Get out! Get out! _GET! THE! HELL! OUT!"_

Dizziness spun through Steve's head, choking his words. He stumbled backwards, dazed, confused. The sparks snapping at his back was the only warning he had before the electric punch drop-kicked him back into darkness.

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He woke lying on the floor of his bedroom, clothes soaked in sweat and head pounding abominably. Lying there, aching muscles refusing to move, he stared at the ceiling, chest heaving.

 _What is all this? Why…what IS it?_

These hellish dreams…

He felt sick.

He closed his eyes as whispering voices swirled just outside his hearing.

 _"_ _Hold on Steve! You can't fall asleep. We are almost home."_

 _"_ _I'm trying Buck…it's so cold."_

 _"_ _I know. But you have got to stay with me. Come on, we can't sleep now."_ _(A patch of ice. Slipping, staggering, falling. Cold pavement under his cheek. Sleep…) "Steve! Wake up!"_

 _"_ _I'm tired, Buck, leave me alone…."_

 _"_ _Come on, talk to me! What is your name?"_

 _"_ _Go away."_

 _"_ _STEVE ROGERS! GET UP THIS INSTANT AND TELL ME YOUR NAME!"_

 _"_ _Steven…Grant…Rogers!"_

 _"_ _How old are you?"_

 _"_ _12."_

 _"_ _Where do you live?"_

 _"_ _Brooklyn."_

 _"_ _Keep talking, that's it! We'll be fine. Who's the president?"_

 _"_ _I….I can't remember, Bucky."_

 _"_ _Never mind then. Here, keep moving, I've got you. Just keep it small. What's your name?"_

 _"_ _Steve Rogers."_

 _"_ _Good job, Steve. Hold on now, I've got you."_

Steve opened his eyes again. A groan rumbled in his chest.

"I could be bonded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite time and space – were it not that I have bad dreams." He recited helplessly to himself.

Even his deep, heavy voice sounded thin and alone in the empty room.

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 _She had not known what the bond between these two men, the soldier, the fighter, had been until now. But now she knew._

 _When the icy cold had closed over the soldier, lying unconscious and bleeding in the fallen Valkyrie, she had reached out and touched his life. His memory flowed through her, quiet, calm, but full of emotion, the same as his voice she had heard. The quiet desire of a truly good heart to do good, to be good, and protect good._

 _In that place she had found many he wished to protect. The dark-haired woman, her eyes bright and confident. The old general, gruff and practical. Memories of young children, older women, strong, steady soldiers like him._ _And the fighter._

 _The fighter she was trying to protect from waking back into his nightmare._

 _With surprise she turned back to the young fighter. His memories came in a rush and tumble. Full of energy and passion. Songs with friends, laughter with enemies, fights with enemies, dances with loves. The eager cry of a valiant heart to do justly, to be merciful, and to glory in the fullness of the good, the true, the beautiful._ _And there, amongst the good he sought to build up, was the soldier._

 _They should not fall. Not these two. She could help them._

 _She reached out to herself, where she stood in their minds, and took up the half shattered ends of the hearts-bond that had stood so long. She rejoined it, and strengthened it, binding together not just the hearts, but the minds, wreathing together a hidden link in the back of their consciousness._

 _I cannot save you. She murmured. I am no more than an instrument to be used wisely. But I can help you save each other._


	4. Chapter 4: Fear and Loss

Chapter 4: Fear and Loss

 _A great man is not a man so strong that he feels less than other men; he is a man so strong that he feels more. ~Chesterton_

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Watery darkness and shadows, cold pavement under his feet. Bucky sat slumped in his chair, eyes closed in a light and restless sleep. His face was drawn and white; he looked old and shrunken, his cheekbones jutting from his hunger-pinched face. Steve stood still a moment, recalling the twisted agony of last time, remembering Bucky's strangled "Get away!"

Why was he here? What could he possibly do? What if he hurt Bucky again? He looked down at his hands, recalling their instinctive urge to grasp Bucky's hand, to release him from his bonds. The pain that had leapt into Bucky's tortured frame, driving it beyond what any human being should have to face. Looking at Bucky's grey and bloody face, he felt sick at the thought of causing that again. .

Bucky suddenly woke, crying out in fear and pain as some horrific nightmare twisted him in his bonds.

Steve forgot all else and instinctively leaped forward, pushing his way through the electric wall. It was easier this time, although the effort still left him weak and gasping on his knees.

"What…who…?" Bucky panted, his eyes desperately trying to focus in the weak light. It hurt Steve to see those sniper-steady eyes so lost and unsure. Steve stood stiffly and slowly, his hands raised in a peaceful gesture.

"It's me, Buck. It's Steve."

Dried blood crackled in Bucky's eyebrows as he frowned warily, his gaze measuring Steve from top to bottom. "The hell you are." He snapped, his voice sharpening to something almost unrecognizable. "You're another trick, like last time. They stuck something in me to try and make me talk. Go away!"

"No, Buck." Steve said firmly, stepping forward again. "I have nothing to do with them."

"You're not here." Bucky shook his head, voice losing its strength to become startlingly desparate. "They don't have you too. This is another dream and I've got to wake up." He hung his head and groaned deeply, his voice so faint Steve almost didn't catch the broken words. "Why does this keep happening, night after night? What are they doing to me?"

Steve's eyes widened in confusion and horror. "What are they doing to you?"

Bucky's head shot up, angry and hurt. "What, shouldn't you know? If your just part of my head, if you actually have been here, watching me through that wall in so many of my dreams. You would know. You would know the torture and the cold, the hunger and the pain and the thirst. The hours strapped down to their tables while doctors do things to me over and anger again even when I'm screaming and fighting. I don't know how many I've killed or hurt trying to get free but it's never enough, it's never enough to get out."

A strange, familiar feeling gripped Steve's gut and he looked down, brows furrowed as he struggled with the answer he could feel elude his grasp. "I don't know what's going on. All I know is I keep finding myself here."

"Why haven't you helped me?" Bucky demanded. "Last time I saw you, you burst in out of nowhere and, the second I let my guard down, hurt me so bad I almost told them what they wanted. What are you _doing_ , Steve?"

"I'm not with them, Buck. I would never hurt you. I didn't know that was going to happen."

Bucky's face fell quietly. "You…you aren't really here, are you?"

Steve frowned. "What do you mean?"

Bucky sighed. "In the flesh. You're a dream. Somehow, I'm dreaming you. Over and over and over again."

Steve's hands fell to his sides helplessly. "I guess so."

"Why? Why won't you come? I've waited so long…I fought so hard and so long. I thought…I thought you would come."

Steve's chest ached with the effort of standing up under that broken question. How could he answer that? What possible excuse could he give? "But, you're dead." He managed finally.

Bucky's head was lowered, his eyes shut tight. "I understand. I'm sorry, Steve." He murmured, voice breaking. "I don't know what's going on. I'm in this hell and I see you and it just makes it worse. Because you're not here, and I'm glad because if you were here it would mean that they would have you too, and I couldn't bear that. But I'm so alone. If you're just a dream at least I'm dreaming of that. It's gotta be the one thing keeping me sane." He paused, chuckling drily. "How crazy is that?"

"Where are you? Do you know?" Steve asked, a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Someplace that's freezing where they speak Russian." Bucky shrugged, wincing a little. "Not that that narrows it down. I haven't picked up enough of the lingo yet to piece together any place names. "

"Why do they have you? What do they want? How did you come here?"

"Once again, I don't know. After the train I was out of it for a long time. Anything I remember is shadowy and broken up and cold…very cold. I think I must have nearly died a couple times." He frowned, shook his head roughly. "I can't believe I can't remember, Steve…I must be forgetting things."

Steve looked down, shocked. _Bucky Barnes, best memory in our entire class, could remember a face and a name 5 years after meeting it once…forgetting something?_

"What else can you not remember?"

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "How the heck am I supposed to remember what I don't remember?"

"Ok. Sorry. Uh…Dugan's favorite drink?"

Bucky snorted, a hint of a familiar grin about his lips. "Bourbon."

"Name of your favorite rifle?"

"Ethy!"

"Name of our strike team?"

"For crying out loud, Rogers!"

"Alright, sorry," Steve laughed. "Your mom's name?"

Bucky, still grinning, blinked. His face froze for a second, his eyes darting back and forth, before his eyebrows knit together and he blinked in confusion. Steve's heart lurched to a sudden stop. Bucky's voice was suddenly low and quavering.

"I…I can't remember Mom's name."

Steve choked, metal bands constricting his lungs. "Winifred." He forced out.

Buck frowned. "Was that it? I don't know…she died when I was very young." Steve sat down suddenly.

"How many sisters do you have?"

Bucky frowned.

"What are you talking about Steve? I don't have any sisters."

Steve stopped breathing. "Your dad's job?"

"He's dead. Long dead, you know that."

Steve looked up at Bucky, his face calm and unconcerned. Inhumanly so. This man who had once told him that he didn't tell his mother anything about the battles in his letters because he didn't want to worry her. Whose three sisters always sent care packages with hand-knitted socks in them. Whose father showed off the articles about the Howling Commandos to everyone who entered his shop. This man, whose family had almost been his own, completely believed that he was alone.

"Buck," he gasped, "What have they done to you?"

"How do you expect me to know that, Steve?" Bucky murmured, his voice growing distant. I don't even know who _they_ are."

Steve woke up.


	5. Lost Dreams

Chapter 5: Lost Dreams

 _"_ _Now no matter, child, the name: Sorrow's springs are the same." _ Spring and Fall, Gerard Manley Hopkins._

The cool breeze was stirring the spring leaves over his head. The kids in front of him, screaming and shouting as they ran after the baseball, were comfortingly familiar. Different clothes, different voices, but the same game generating the same eager light in their eyes.

"You look so in love anyone would think the kids were all yours."

Steve chuckled lightly as Natasha sat beside him, looking polished and professional in a blue jacket and skirt.

"I guess it was a popular dream back then to have kids?" she continued.

"Unlike now, yes." Steve admitted, his eyes flicking to the Planned Parenthood that glared ominously across the street. A lump of disgust and horror choked his throat and he looked back to where Natasha's pointed gaze awaited answer. He chuckled assent.

"Mike. Jenny. Dean. I wanted at least those three, more if I could get them."

"They sound as though they would have been nice," Nat. murmured distantly. "But that is not why you are here."

"The real question is why _you_ are here," Steve shot back curiously.

"Fury noticed that you were off during the last mission. He wanted me to check up on you."

"I'm fine," He smiled, mental shields clambering back into place hurriedly.

Nat's gaze sharpened.

"You're reminding yourself of someone? Who?"

"You know it's really creepy when you do that?"

Her eyes flicked to the all-boys baseball team and back to him. "Your friend, Bucky. You're struggling with his memory."

"Maybe you could plain-out ask me what's wrong instead of dissect my head," Steve grumbled.

"I did. You said you were fine."

"Alright, alright!" he huffed. "Remind me not to lie to you again."

"Captain America? Lying?" Her eyebrow crooked up, a sarcastic match to her smirk.

"It was a little fib."

"No, you said 'lie'."

"Are we gonna talk about this or not?"

Nat fell silent.

Steve took a deep breath, and began to talk.

 _She had not expected the pain. The overwhelming, crushing amount of pain. How could creatures so finite, so young, so ignorant of the extent of the world and the universe, feel such horrific torture? She, who had seen the rise and fall of entire worlds, could not recall a time in the eternity since she had been called into being that she had been this close to pure agony._

 _The fighter was undergoing torments that would have destroyed a god. She had seen the suffering of gods and she knew. To have one's very knowledge of one's self worn away, the fiber of one's being altered, was a crime so horrific that she cried out to the Supreme Being for an alleviation of his pain._

 _She had not realized that the connection she had formed between the two men was going to kill the soldier._

 _Locked in the icy waste of his battleground-turned prison grave, his sleep could not alleviate the terror that flowed from the fighter's mind to his. His mind rejected it, striving to wake up, prevented by the hibernation the body had taken on to protect itself. The mind screamed for release from the suffering it underwent on behalf of the other._ _It was destroying itself with every torment enacted on its hearts-brother._

 _She reached out to him again, cursing herself for her own short-sightedness. The connection could not be broken. To break it against the will of one or the other could mean the death of them both. Instead she sank his mind into deep and dreamless sleep, a suspension of all knowledge, until such time as his body could be found, awoken, and healed._

 _The peace of the soldier when the sleep came was a warmth to her heart. The scream of despair, abandonment and agony that came after from the fighter shattered her soul into a thousand pieces._

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 **Author's note:** **These next few segments are gonna be short, but i'll keep them coming at a quick clip.**

 **thanks for the reviews! please send more! also, if you have any questions, don't be afraid to ask. i'm more than happy to clear up any inconsistencies or confusion.**


	6. Chapter 6: The Loyalty of the Dead

Chapter 6: The Loyalty of the Dead.

 _Only the weak can be brave; and yet again, in practice, only those who can be brave can be trusted, in time of doubt, to be strong." ~Chesterton_

This time the barrier wasn't even present. Steve woke to find Bucky murmuring Irish songs under his breath, his head leaned back wearily again the pillar, his eyes half closed in a drowsy rest.

"I'm back." Steve announced. Bucky came a little more awake and smiled grimly.

"I see. What was that?"

Steve shrugged. "I woke up. These dreams do come to an end, you know."

Bucky nodded, his face twisted with some unpleasant memory. "I know."

Steve crouched beside him, his brow furrowed. Bucky shifted in place, his eyebrow sliding up warily. "Great. You've got that look that means you're thinking. What are you thinking of?"

Steve knit his hands together, chewing his lip slightly. "Bucky, tell me about your family again."

Bucky shrugged. "What family? My mom died in childbirth with me, my dad died fighting for the Red Army when I was a young boy. I went through several foster homes before I ended up fighting in the army myself."

"What army?" Steve asked.

"The Russian army, of course. What did you think it was?"

Steve's stomach froze. "Tell me more."

Buck frowned, his forehead wrinkling. "The details aren't clear…it's so hard to remember. The injury you see, kinda messed with my head. I keep mixing the details up…"

"What injury?" Steve asked, his voice kicking into a higher register.

"There was an accident on a mission. It took my arm and gave me a terrible head injury. They told me it ruined my memory, scrambled all my memories about how things ought to have been."

Steve motioned for him to keep talking, even though every word was burying him like an avalanche of stones.

"Apparently, I was a sniper in a strike team, but I keeping messing up who the people was. Sometimes, I keep thinking that members of the enemy were part of the team. Some American alcoholic…and that British spy, that woman. She's a dangerous one to have in my head. Keeps talking to me." Bucky shook his head, grimacing.

"What does she say?" Steve asked, his heart in his mouth.

"She keeps calling me, telling me to come back, because you need me." Bucky's eyes grew insistent. "Stay away from that woman, Steve. She's dangerous. She could kill us all."

"No, Bucky. Peggy would never hurt us. She's our closest ally."

"How do you know her name? Why are you talking to the enemy, Steve?" Bucky demanded angrily.

"What are you talking about? Don't you realize-"

A sudden slam of a door outside the cell caused them both to jump, followed by a sharp order.

"Get behind the barrier!" Bucky hissed. Footsteps thudded in the hall, bearing witness to Bucky's warning. Steve looked up, concern mixing with sudden determination. "I'm not leaving them to you again!"

Bucky's gaze was firm. "They can't find you here. They can't know that I know you. Go!"

"Why not?"

Bucky's eyes were sudden wavering, confused. "I…I don't know. But they mustn't! Go! Now!"

There was a shiver, a yank and a sudden blow. Steve found himself rolling back on the cold stone floor, early smacking into the wall. The entire front of his body hurt as though he had run face-first into the electric wall.

"You stubborn little idiot." He groaned, rolling stiffly onto his back. Pain was forgotten, however, as the door screeched open. A captain, tall, stern-faced, strode past him peremptorily, coming to a sharp stop in front of Bucky. His gloved hands were clasped tightly behind his back and his coat was grey.

Bucky, even exhausted, bloody, in possibly the worst tactical position, could still be annoyingly sarcastic. He raised one eyebrow. "You're new."

"I am Captain Jordan K. Jordanov, Hydra division 26. I am in charge of you now."

"Well, maybe you can do something about the drafts in here? It's insanely cold."

"Your condition improves or deteriorates just as your compliance does." Captain Jordanov said slowly, steeping closer until he towered over the prisoner. Bucky had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. "Let us, therefore, proceed without difficulty." He turned away and took a folder from a lieutenant. Shuffling through the papers slowly, he took his time selecting one and perusing it carefully. The tension had caused Bucky to stiffen slightly in the chair, his muscles clenching in wary expectation.

"What do you know of this man?" he held out a photo to Bucky. Steve craned his head to catch a glimpse, before blanching. It was a photo of himself.

"Nothing." Bucky drawled.

"I should hope that was the truth." Jordanov stated, setting the photo down. "Sadly, I'm concerned that it is not. You must be aware, Soldier, that your injury created a dangerous situation in your mind. Such that you do not remember an entire event. This man captured you."

Steve scoffed, incredulous. _What is he trying to do?_

"I doubt that is the case. I've never seen him." Bucky insisted.

"I'm not trying to get information from you," Jordanov said, his voice a low, smooth lie. "I'm merely trying to help you, Soldier. Let me tell you the story. It is imperative you remember the truth." The lieutenant suddenly stepped up behind Bucky and grasped his shoulder, stabbing down with a syringe. Bucky cried out and struggled, throwing himself back and forth, but the restraints held firm and he stilled, grunting as the strange liquid coursed through him.

Steve tried to push forward, but the barrier was completely impassable. Bucky, leaning back in his chair, gasped raggedly, shaking his head. His eyes were unfocused for a long moment, before they slowly calmed, coming back to themselves. His breathing grew even as he sat up in the chair, staring quietly at the captain.

"Are you ready to comply, Soldat?"

Bucky frowned, in a confused distracted way. "I don't think that is my name."

"Our true name reveals our calling. Your true name is Soldat, for that is your calling. Now, tell me. Have you seen this man before?" he raised the picture to Bucky's line of sight.

Bucky frowned. "I don't think I should tell you."

"You must. I order you to do so."

Bucky shook his head. "No, no I mustn't tell you."

"Then let me tell you. You have seen him. Understand this: you were captured while on a mission by this man, who kept you prisoner. His name is Steve Rogers."

"How do you know that?" Bucky asked, shock and confusion in his eyes.

"We know everything. But you must understand this; this man is dangerous. He is the one who would destroy your calling. It was because you tried to escape him, like a true son of Russia, that you were injured. He is responsible for this."

Bucky shook his head, firmly. "No." his voice was steady now, certain. "He is my friend. We grew up together." A light chuckle slipped free. "He's a blasted idiot, I'll give you that, but he's no traitor. He's like my brother."

Captain Jordanov sighed and looked up at the other lieutenant. "Can we risk another injection?"

The lieutenant shook his head. "It could give him a stroke. Don't try it."

Captain Jordanov rubbed his hands over his face in a very un-military way. "Fine." he faced Bucky again, who was frowning in confusion.

"What's going on?" Bucky asked, slowly.

"Nothing, Soldier. Nothing that concerns your orders. Now, this Rogers."

"Steve." Bucky stated.

"Yes, Stepan, actually. Information supports your assessment. You grew up together?"

"Shared everything. School, depression, war, everything."

"You relied on him."

"We have each other's backs."

"Always?"

"To the end of the line."

Steve had trouble swallowing.

"Do you know where he is now?"

Bucky opened his mouth to answer, then stopped, blinking and shaking his head roughly. "No…I…no, I don't...I mean…no."

"Are you aware that Stepan Rogers is now part of the Allied forces?"

Bucky looked confused. "What do you mean? He fought with me, and I was stationed in the Red Army…Steve couldn't be with the Allies. He's the most loyal soldier I know."

"It is the truth. He deserted a short time before your injury, which I believe you acquired in pursuing him and trying to convince him to come back. It was a dangerous mission, but when you suffered a terrible accident in the freight car of the train, he let you fall into a deep mountain gorge rather than try to save his long-time friend. He now serves as the Allies' most terrible asset."

"No." Bucky shook his head, confusion mounting. "That impossible. Steve would never do something like that."

"You must understand, Soldier, that despite your loyalty and friendship, Rogers ultimately would do nothing to save you. You defended him, and he let you fall to what could have been your death."

"No, I don't believe you."

"You lay there for days. No one could find you."

"Stop. You're lying."

Steve's shoulders were heaving from his efforts to break through the wall.

"You lost your arm, your memories, almost perished completely."

"Shut up!"

"He did not even send out a search team for you. Three days you lay in the snow, waiting for him to remember everything you had done for him and save you."

"Stop it, stop it, and stop it!" Bucky muttered, his eyes losing focus. "He'd never…your lying…you don't understand…" His head fell back and his arms began to seize jerkily. "Not Steve…he's a punk, but he's…he's coming, he always does…I…Where…."

"Quickly. The information is backlashing. Knock him out!" the lieutenant ordered, fumbling with a small black device he threw to the captain, who caught it awkwardly and pressed it against Bucky's temple. Bucky fell silent and still, his eyes closing in a restless, sudden sleep.

Officer Jordanov rose to his feet and groaned heavily, pulling off his cap and running his hands through his hair "That one was too close. This concept of "Steve" is proving more impossible to reprogram than everything else put together."

"Just give it time," The lieutenant soothed. "For now, let's get out of these ridiculous uniforms. I don't understand how people live in these things their whole lives."

"It helps trick the mind from making the switch of allegiance from the American Forces to the Russian," Officer Jordanov – who was swiftly removing all signs of being an officer of any kind- said. "Gather everything up. We will work again tomorrow."

The door slammed shut behind them.

Steve stared at Bucky's grey face as it swirled into the blackness. When he came to himself he was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring ahead into a dark tinged with the city nightlight. He covered his face with his hands.

"Thank Heaven you are dead, Buck." He whispered shakily. "Thank Heaven that never happened."

 _When the soldier had awoken, she had been sure to make no sign of her presence known._ _Instead she watched quietly as he confronted a new world, wept for him as he struggled to heal. Sometimes his pain would be so great that she could no longer bear it, and would reach out of her corner in his mind and bring to light some long-forgotten pleasure, some memory, in hope it would heal him._

 _He did not heal._

 _And the fighter was dying._

 _70 long years she had dwelt with the fighter, curled in his mind, protecting what she could of his memories, his fight, and his self. He had struggled for so long after the connection had ended, although the second the soldier had vanished into sleep was the second the end of the battle had begun. He fought physically as long as he had strength, a fight that made even the age-long-struggles of famed heroes seem worthless. Then when his body, worn down by rigor, starvation, maltreatment and torture, could no longer summon the will to endure pain, he resisted in his mind. He fought back with his words, his thoughts, stubbornly holding onto those truths he knew even after weeks, months of constant mind torture, and wearying hours of lies being broken around his ears, arguments twisting his mind, batteries of foreign beliefs being shoved into his agonized thoughts. Even when he had no more words to speak, he withdrew into himself and refused to obey them, resisting, holding fast to himself and his memory. So often she had comforted him, calling up those quiet memories of his childhood, bringing before him a remembered song, a laugh, a dear voice._

 _Yet there was nothing she could do when the Un-Doing came._

 _They had strapped him down to their crude instruments, beating his resistant limbs into place, binding strange metals and wires about his head. He had been frightened, but shown nothing. She had been frightened, and had reached out to calm him._

 _A sudden torment filled his entire mind, and even she cried out in pain. Crude, vulgar force blasted through his brain, seizing his memories and slaying them by the thousands, thrusting into the deep, dark prisons of his mind. She had fought alongside him then, trying to protect him, but for once her power was too weak and she too was locked beneath the depths of his subconscious, beyond all hope of reclamation._

 _She had never known grief as deep as when the one who had been the fighter stood before his captors, and obeyed their orders unquestioningly._


	7. Chapter 7: The Order to Betray

Chapter 7: The Order to Betray

" _My own heart let me have more pity on…with this tormenting mind tormented yet." _Gerard Manley Hopkins_

"Captain Rogers, Fury would like a word with you in his office."

Steve looked up from the bashed weapons he had been trying to put away and focused his gaze on the impassive stare of the Agent.

"Right. Inform the Director I will report on the mission as soon as I have made myself look more presentable. I should be up within 20 minutes."

"Sir, the Director would like to speak with you _immediately_."

Steve set down the handgun and looked at himself. From the knees down, he was covered in mud. His uniform bore splotches of what may have been grease or blood, he couldn't tell at the moment. A temporary bandage wrapped his upper arm and his hair was dripping water onto his nose. He could see that even Rumlow was raising an eyebrow at the idea of him striding into the Director's high quality – albeit Spartan- office as such a squelching, sloppy mess.

"'Immediately?'"

"At once, Sir."

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Steve sprinted to the elevator and spent the entire 110 floor ride pacing, his mind flipping through all the various red flags he had been keeping tabs on. Another attack in Iran? Terrorist spotted enroute to Philadelphia? So help him, if Tony had blown up the top part of Avenger's tower again and freaked out half of New York, he would bash-

Outside the Director's office, he composed himself and knocked, a little more sharply than he had intended.

"In!" Nick called.

Steve cracked the door open and-with half a mind to avoiding the carpet- strode in.

"What is it, Sir?" he asked.

"This." Nick answered, tapping the screen he stood in front of. Steve stepped closer and recognized footage from one of the SHIELD satellites.

Footage of him as he fought the terrorists he had faced less than 2 hours before.

"The mission, sir?" he asked, uncomprehending.

"Not just this mission." Nick tapped another screen and multiple shots sprang to life on it, all of Steve.

"For the last 5 weeks, you've been downright sloppy. Missing points, taking risks, making mistakes. I've been letting it slide till now because I figured it wasn't anything big. But then it kept happening. So I called in Natasha. And she told me something which makes this serious."

Steve turned, glaring at Nat who sat on the couch, her feet propped up on the expensive coffee table.

"You told him." He stated angrily.

"Yes, Rodgers, I told him."

"I spoke to you in confidence."

"That prerequisite was never stated."

"Even so, a friend should never even _consider-"_

"That's enough, Captain. She told me because I ordered her to, and because she also realizes the danger. Agent Romanov, you may leave."

Nat unfolded herself from the leather couch and stalked out, her chin tilted high and her eyes deliberately turned away from Steve.

"Captain." Fury snapped. Steve faced him again, an unexpected feeling in his stomach. The type he would have had if he had been a stellar student whose grades had suddenly and inexplicably dropped to half their worth.

"You're off missions."

"What?"

"Until we find some way to stop these dreams, you are a liability."

"A liability? This is ridiculous. These dreams do not affect-"

"You are and they do!" Nick snapped, standing up suddenly.

Steve stared, shoulders heaving.

Nick sighed and tapped the screen again. Before meeting Steve's hard accusing stare. "I know you don't like it, but we have to keep an eye on all our agents."

"Do I get the privilege of you monitoring my eating habits as well? There used to be something called privacy in this country. Was considered fairly popular too."

"70 years ago, a serum was stuck in your body. We don't know what it was, we don't know what it did to you. But I highly doubt that it was all good. These dreams are a result of your mind is trying to adapt to everything that happened to it, and they are having effects on your life in real missions. It happens to all of our soldiers, even those who don't do a time-warp from one century to another." He hesitated for a moment. "A time-warp is-"

"I know. I read up on it."

"Right. The point stands. Captain, in the last five missions you have grown negligent. Collateral damage has doubled. Results are sloppy. And every freaking time you personally come back with at least one new bullet hole because -as Rumlow put it- "The idiot has stopped even paying attention to risk levels."

"Not even my team is exempt from this?"

"Your team needs you to protect them, not to lead them into a hornets nest because you can't keep your head on straight!" Nick's eye hardened and his voice was clipped. "You have to stop these dreams somehow. They are destroying America's best soldier, and the men who count on him to be one."

 _The long years had gone by. Were it not for the memories that were lying torn and bleeding around her, she would never have believed that the empty, ruthless mind she lived in had belonged to the kind, passionate, determined fighter._

 _She could not contain her hope when the soldier had awoken._

 _Quietly she had bided her time. The soldier had much work to do when he had first awoken, and much to suffer. She did not want to torment him further. But the battles ended, and she could wait no longer. The fighter had been a prisoner too long._

 _She reached out between their minds and lifted the connection from its long concealment._

 _It had been first she could only show them to each other, and only in secrecy. The fighter, whose consciousness of himself had slowly revived in the depths of his subconscious, could not speak to the soldier without arousing the suspicious of the Winter Soldier. But together, they had sent memories of his long containment, speaking to the soldier, trying to communicate what had happened, silently pleading for aid. The soldier eagerly sought them, though they kept him out as long as possible._

 _Quietly the fighter grew bolder, as was always his wont, and spoke openly. The gap had been bridged, with pain. But bridged it was and she watched warily, fearful of a break that would kill them both. The handlers of the Winter Soldier were spending more time around his Cage. She watched them warily, curling her power around the fighter and the connection to the soldier. She knew their names now…Bucky, Steve. The names gave them a humanness, a definite focal point in time and existence, these men who had come to embody for her what a soldier was, what a fighter was._ _She couldn't let them break now. She was frightened. Frightened that the handlers would grow suspicious of why the Winter Soldier's vitals were changing, as Bucky grew and stretched, rediscovering his body and trying to wake himself up. She could not speak to him, was incapable of revealing her presence, but she pleaded with all the graces of the heavens that he would not be found, would not be discovered. She did not know if he could survive another direct attack from the machine._

 _12122321234554321234567654321_

 **citylily: I hope this helps explain the question about the timeline!**

 **thanks to everyone for reviews!**


	8. Chapter 8: To Lose a Soul

_"_ _How can men be recalled to safety when nobody pulls them back and the crowd pushes them forward?"~Seneca_

The watery sense of passing from sleep to dream parted and Steve blinked, the by-now familiar metal walls dark around him. Bucky shivered in the hateful chair, his teeth chattering, and his face white and drawn. Steve pushed his way through the barrier (strangely easy) and knelt at Bucky's side, careful not to touch him.

"Who's …who's there?" Bucky murmured brokenly.

"It's me, Steve." He murmured, blinking back tears. Bucky was fading, and fast.

"Steve…?" Bucky lifted his head slightly. Steve could glimpse his eyes through the rough curtain of dirty, shaggy bangs. The familiar winter-sky-blue orbs were clouded, circled with exhaustion, their sniper-focus crushed and wandering. They were … confused. Steve's heart plummeted to the pit of his stomach.

 _Heaven help us, Bucky. Where have you gone?_

The confusion cleared suddenly, replaced by relief, and then fear. "I…. help me, Steve…"

His hands automatically flew out, but stopped short as Bucky stiffened, hissing in anticipation of pain. "It's gonna be alright. Just, just hang on a little longer." His voice broke at that and he clamped ahis mouth shut, trying to control his aching heart before it burst with desperation.

The slight beginnings of hope in Bucky's eyes shattered like fallen icicles on pavement. He looked away, shoulders heaving. His shifting hair revealed along, shallow cut on his neck, looking remarkable similar to a whip weal. Fury rose up in Steve's gut, hot and sickening.

 _Those monsters who have turned Bucky into this broken shadow are going to pay. Dearly._

"Steve…?"

"I'm here, Bucky." Steve said softly, holding his friend's gaze.

"Bucky….?" Bucky's eyes furrowed, then widened, looking strongly wild and lost. "Bucky. That was me?"

"Yes." Steve said warily, his stomach dropping in fear.

Bucky's eyes flitted about, his breath coming harsher. "What have they done to me?" he groaned. "What have they done? Who am I, Steve? Who was Bucky? Tell me who he was 'cause, heaven help me, I can't remember anymore! All I can remember is this place, this pain...I've never known anything else…" his voice fell away into incomprehensible murmurs, like that of a man lost in a fever.

Steve stared at the broken man, trapped in the chair, trapped in the cell, trapped in the unshakable grip of his worst enemies. The very emptiness of this nightmare, contrasted with the richness of memory, choked him into silence.

Bucky. Bucky was boyish pranks, sarcastic jokes. Cheerful laughter after a long day of hard work. Cool beers in that Irish pub with the racing fiddle music on holidays. A warm smile that made any woman he met feel like a queen. A rambunctious, crazy song whenever they were too tired to move. The one who was always at Steve's side, with an idea or a gun or a quip or sometimes just a shoulder to lean on when Steve had gone too far or done too much again. Bucky was vision and color and passion and…and alive.

And here, starkly real against the shadows of that former time, there was this. This figure of black and red and silver, trapped in hard stone and icy cold. No remnant of energetic life, no shred of bubbling joy, no ghost of clear, heart-felt laughter. He was empty and hard, a man of tearing pain, grim defiance. Flawed ice, chipping, cracking, crumbling into nothingness. Steve's heart twisted within him. This figure of dreams, this specter that his mind, aching for familiarity and friendship in the strange modern world, had conjured in his sleep was a nightmare when compared to the bright, laughing hero of his memories.

But it was all he had left, here, in this time, when he had nothing. Even alone in a strange new world, he had a dream of Bucky. Steve crouched down, caught the gaze of those harsh, shattered-glacier eyes, and held it.

"Bucky is my friend. He always has been, he always will be. You are Bucky. And nothing they every do to you, or to me, is going to change that."

Bucky's eyes steadied and filled with relief.

"You've got to get me out of here." He slurred, head dropping to his chest. "I…cant' take much more of this…"

"What are they doing to you?" Steve growled. Logic warned that he would be better off not knowing, but his anger wouldn't let him shy away from this.

"I…" Bucky hesitated, licking his lips nervously. Pain flitted across his face and he frowned, gripping he chair rungs with both hands. "I can't remember it all." His voice was cracked and strained as he took a deep breath and furrowed his brow in concentration.

"They pump me full of strange medicines...which give me really bad headaches. Sometimes I wake up out of nowhere and I'm freezing cold, but my head is so fuzzy I can't figure out what happened. They keeping talking in Russian, repeating same words over and over till everything spins…and …I don't know, it hurts too much…I…no, shut up…shut _up_ …oh, for the love of all that's holy, _STOP IT!"_ the last few words came out in a strangled scream. Suddenly Bucky lashed himself backwards, his head smacking painfully against the pillar again and again with an eerie violence.

"Bucky! Bucky, stop! Stop it!" Steve shouted, terrified that his friend would bash his already fragile brains out. Bucky stopped, head tilted to the ceiling, eyes closed, chest heaving.

The edges of the dream began to fade. Steve growled roughly, shaking his head. _Stay. Here._

"Don't go!" Bucky gasped. "They're in my head, Steve. Their talking to me. Shut them up!"

A wall of dark sprang up between them. "I'm trying, Buck!"

The walls of the cell shook, dust crumbling. A harsh voice bellowed around them, shouted words sharp and punctuated. They were following quickly after each other, in a thousand different languages. Steve could discern French, Italian, English, what sounded like German and Russian. The black veil dropped over him again.

"No! Steve!" Buck called out to him in the darkness.

"Hold on!" he shouted back, clawing his way forward, shoving aside heavy blankets and leaping….wait, blankets?

Steve sat up in the pitch black of his room, one hand reaching out and a cry still in his throat.

 _Belabored with voices snapping commands both in and out of his head, Bucky sat there, staring at the empty room. Then he filled it with an animalistic howl of desolation. He bashed his head back again, screaming, until the voices stopped with his own fall into sudden dark._


	9. Chapter 9: The Crime of Innocence

Chapter 9: The Crime of Innocence

 _"Kill the boys…tis expressly against the law of arms…tis certain there's not a boy left alive; and the cowardly rascals that ran from the battle ha' done this slaughter…" ~Henry V_

Steve glanced down the street from the cover of the corner, scanning quickly for enemies. He could hear the harsh heavy pants of the private behind him.

"Go. Now!" he hissed, jumping forward, running quickly from cover to cover, his shield ready to deflect, his eyes still scanning for danger.

Catching the flicker of movement in the building behind them.

"Look out! He shouted, grabbing the private and physically throwing him over a short wall as gunfire cracked above them, before leaping for the safety himself.

The punch of the bullet smashed through his shoulder, jerking him off balance. He crashed onto the wall top, groaning. Gunfire cracked louder and he rolled, holding his shield over his head as he fell off the wall onto the drift of thick snow behind it. This rescue mission had degenerated quickly into a very messy firefight. He didn't know where the others were, and he wasn't entirely sure where he was either.

"Sir! Sir, are you alright?" a voice barked. Cap glanced up at the young private. His blue coat- a hapless attempt at incognito- hung heavily on his arms and he fumbled in the sleeves as he probed Steve's wound.

"I'll… be fine…keep an eye out for that sniper!" Steve grunted, setting aside his shield and clumsily fumbling for a bandage in his pack. "We're both dead if he gets into a better position. Keep him busy!"

"I…Right, Sir!" the private gasped. He stood, leaning his gun on the wall and peering out from the safety of the rubble. Steve reached for his comm unit. Fury hadn't wanted him to go, but the mission was imperative, and Tony was tied up in Western Iran. So here Steve was, in the middle of a bad situation, trying to keep it from turning worse.

"Head-Bird, this is Rodgers. I'm pinned with one other in the rubble under heavy fire. Currently one assailant, sniper, positioned roughly 50 yards from us in the building on the left of the street, three floors up. Shots fired. I'm wounded and-"

There was a sudden crack and a shout. The private staggered back, a sharp scream leaping into the air. His gun clattered into the deep snow and he collapsed almost onto Steve's lap, red blood streaking his face.

"Private! Where are you hurt?" Steve asked, pulling himself to his knees and dragging the private into a half-sitting position against the wall. The soldier coughed, blood dribbling down his chin. Battle panic glinted in his eyes and he began to pant shakily.

"My gun. My gun. I need my gun." He rasped, fingers scrabbling in the snow. A soldier's desparate instinct to defend himself from approaching danger.

"It's alright, son." Steve murmured, shoving the rifle in his hands. "It's here. Now hold still."

Pulling his pistol from his holster, Steve angled his head carefully over the wall. The air was silent: no gunshots sallied forth. The sniper had apparently decided to get into a better position.

Fear gripped Steve's stomach. He crouched down again, tapping his comm link. "Head Bird, my comrade has taken a severe injury. We are still pinned down. Get us help as soon as you can!" His head snapped through a thousand plans and rejected each as he reached out one hand to put pressure on the blood-gushing wound and kept turning his head, pistol raised for the slightest movement that could give him a target.

"Sir!" The boy shouted suddenly. The crunch of snow alerted Steve at the same moment and he spun, yanking his shield down to cover them both and raising his pistol. Bullets slammed against the heavy metal, pinging into the snow. The enemy soldier ducked under the opposite side of the wall and Steve shifted position, still trying to cover the downed private, preparing himself for a headshot the instant the rebel showed his-

Face.

Steve's finger froze on the trigger.

Dark brows, furrowed in concentration. Shaggy black hair dropping over ice –blue eyes. Jaw set, mouth firmly clamped shut.

 _Bucky._

A rifle sight obscuring the view. The black mouth of a gun filling his vision.

A wordless yell and the crack of gunfire right at his elbow, so loud the entire world seemed to explode and then go soundless. The rebel shouted and tumbled over the railing, dropping to land only a few feet from them. Blood spread across his throat. He gasped softly, wetly.

Not Bucky. Face too young, eyes a different shape. Dying eyes, frightened and determined.

Steve reached forward and yanked the pistol from the man's belt and the rifle from his reach before he could cause more damage. Then he made the mistake of meeting the man's gaze, and froze.

Not man. Kid. He couldn't have been out of his teens.

He looked up at him, the blue eyes – so clear! - confused and hurt. A kid. A kid who looked past at the boy dying on his other side.

Steve quickly turned back to the private. The private's head was slumped down, the rifle resting haphazardly in his lap. He was looking at the man he had just shot, and he was every bit as confused. These two boys, separated by language and country and ideologies, were speaking a common language of fear that Steve recognized from long ago. Another time. Another war.

 _What happened to us?_

 _Why did we have to do this?_

 _If things had been different, we could have been friends. We know._

 _I'm sorry._

Steve knelt between them, watching as -one after another, seconds apart-light died from two pairs of young eyes. Red blood trickled melting streams across the icy cobblestones, soaking wet patches on his knees. A blue coat and a black one. Around them, a thousand fallen stars of scorched silver shrapnel glinted in white snow.

 _I did this._ His mind whispered, shocked, aching.

 _I froze when I should have acted. I could have knocked the rebel out. I could have stopped the bleeding. They could be alive._

 _But…he looked like Bucky._

The dark hair, sparked with icy crystals, broad jaw and shoulders, clear blue eyes half-closed. The private, blond, slim build, pinched face, open blue-green eyes.

 _They could have been Bucky and I._

 _I killed them._

 _They could have lived._

 _But I thought it was Bucky._

The heavy whomp-whomp of the chopper blades sounded behind the building. Steve bent forward, pressing his knuckles to his forehead, breathing his last few seconds of solitude.

 _I failed them._

 _Because I thought it was Bucky._

Fury's angry words echoed in his head. Words he should have heeded. _"Your team needs you to protect them, not lead them into a hornet's nest because you can't keep your head on straight!"_

 _But, I missed him. I wanted him back. I needed to see him, if only in dreams, because I needed him. My friend._

 _I shouldn't have. They are dead now._

 _Bucky is gone. He can't come back. He died long ago._

 _I must forget him. Or I will fail them again._

 _I'm sorry, Buck._

Ice- tears dropped like shrapnel-stars into the snow.

 _She could hear the soldier's torment as he raged with himself for not doing more, moving faster, preventing the sufferings of the young ones._

 _Did all men suffer like this at death?_


	10. Chapter 10: The End of the Line

Chapter 10: The End of the Line.

 _But we ourselves henceforth shall be no shield of yours/ We ourselves henceforth will enter no battle./ We shall look on with our narrow eyes/ When your deadly battles rage." - Alexander Blok, The Scythians._

* * *

Steve bent forward, pressing his hands against his eyes. He would not go to sleep. He would not.

"Not again." He groaned to whoever was listening. "Don't. I can't see him again."

The still faces of the young boys flashed before his eyes, still faces like so many others he failed, failed in moments of weakness. He forced himself to focus on the memories, using them to keep himself awake.

"I won't go back. I won't. Not one more dream. Fury was right. He was always right."

The cold crept along his arms, raising goosebumps on his skin. It felt so _real._

"No." he told himself firmly. "Don't go there. Not yet."

The cold became ice, sticking his bare feet to the floor. A broken voice coughed, spat, and groaned "Steve….?" It sounded so…lonely. Hopeful.

"Stop it!" he snarled to himself. "Wake up!"

The cold, harsh glare shifted and became the gleam of the light over his stove, faint and warm. He lifted his stiff muscles from the table top and rubbed the red spot left on his forehead from resting on the hard wood.

This was getting harder.

Guilt twisted his gut hard as he looked up and realized that, despite all his best efforts, he had actually fallen asleep. Here he stood, again, the dream a strange reality around him, and the time of parting was at hand.

The electric wall bent before his fingers, cool and almost pleasant. He yearned for the old shocking pain, some form of punishment for what he was about to do. _No, mustn't think like that. That is wrong._

Bucky's head was leaned back against the pillar, his eyes gazing listlessly at the wall. As Steve slipped through, they sparked to life. Steve realized with a sinking heart that the figure in the dream, so like life, had been waiting for him.

"I thought you were gone." Bucky said, his voice more of a rusty croak than a human voice. He closed his eyes and coughed hard; there was a wet rattle in his lungs. Steve's stomach did a backflip. Bucky looked up, smiling.

"Don't look so grim. Nothing more than a chest cold." His eyes were actually cheerful now. Then they sharpened with worry at Steve's guilty silence. "Steve what's wrong? What has happened? Are you alright?"

Tied down hand and foot, a prisoner being tortured and starved and left to die from neglect and exposure, and _he_ was asking _Steve_ if he was alright. This dream was too real; it was too much; too much like what Bucky had been, if he had been alive.

""I don't know what's going on!" Steve shouted. "I wake up here and there is some electric wall that I can't get through and I have to stand on the other side of it and watch them make you suffer and I can't do one blasted thing to stop it. and I wake up in my own home and I'm lying there realizing that you're dead and you will always be dead and the only way I will ever see you again is here in this blasted cell screaming and tortured and dying and I can't do a thing about it without hurting you myself!"

Bucky stared, his mouth slightly open. Steve pressed his hands to his head.

"This is a dream. Do you hear me? This is not real, it never was, and I won't let it twist me like this anymore. Kids are dying Buck! Do you hear me? They're dying! I let them die because I needed to think that you were alive." He pounded his fists against each other, looking at Buck's broken eyes and driving the point home. "You are DEAD, you hear me? You are DEAD, DEAD, DEAD, dead and gone, a dream like everyone else and nothing I can do can fix that!" his voice broke and he sagged a little, covering his face and breathing deeply. "I have to do this Buck, I have to let you go, or I'm never going to heal. I'm never going to be of any use to anyone. I can't protect them. And that's the only thing left for me to do."

* * *

 _She held her breath as the soldier broke in a thousand pieces. The connection began to unravel and she tried to hold it secure, but it through her back. There was nothing she could do._

 _The fighter's head hung, long dirty hair shielding his watering eyes. The words were like physical blows forcing him back. She could see him there, deep in his mind, screaming the silent words that the soldier could never hear. No, I'm not dead. Please Steve, I spent so long convincing myself I'm alive. Please…_

* * *

"Steve…" he began brokenly.

Steve shattered.

"No!" he shouted, turning and running full force into the barrier, which rent and broke with a scream of shriven metal and breaking ice and crackling lightening. There was pain and sparks and Steve awoke on the floor with the worst headache he had ever known and a heart that was shattered into two cracked and broken pieces.

* * *

 _The fighter watched as Steve fell back from the explosion, writhing and shouting in pain, before disappearing. He stared at the empty cell of his mind, still and silent. He looked back at the gate that bound his mind back from his body, set in place by the cruelty of his captors._

 _Bucky lowered his head, closed his eyes, and with a mighty roar tore free of his fetters._

* * *

The young orderly looked frightened and confused as he scribbled things on his pad and flipped switches on the machine. Winter Soldier One systems were crashing.

* * *

 _She looked at the hole that had once been the hiding place of the connection, torn out, thrown down, cast away. Had she done such wrong? She had only tried to save them both. Now one was broken, and the other was going to die._


	11. Chapter 11: The Relief of Betrayal

Chapter 11: The Relief of Betrayal

 _"I'll use you as a warning sign/ that is you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind." – I Found, Amber Run._

* * *

He closed the book and stared at the cover emptily. Glancing down at the notebook in his lap, half filled with neat-dark script, he added a final bullet point.

Sighing, he set the book on the stack to his right and picked up another from the pile to his left.

Settling himself more comfortably in the hard kitchen chair, he opened to the first page.

* * *

Sam Wilson looked cool and competent as he organized folders in a file box, shifting stacks of important papers into their places. Steve leaned part way through the office doorway and smiled lightly as he rapped his knuckles against the doorjamb. Sam looked up, his familiar smile breaking out like sunshine in a dreary room.

"Running-man! Haven't seen you in a few days. Back from saving the world? "

Steve shrugged non-committedly, smile jerking one corner of his mouth. "Duty calls when duty calls. How are you?"

Sam glanced down at the reports in his hand and shrugged. "Hey, it's not exciting, but it feels good."

"Any luck with the girl at the front desk? Becca, right?"

Sam's grin, if anything, doubled in exuberance and embarrassment. "Well, what about you? Asked that lovely nurse across the hall out yet?"

Steve's voice cracked in surprise. "What do you know about that?"

"Last time you decided to stop beating me around D.C., we stopped at that coffee shop. She was picking up an espresso after her morning shift, said hi on her way out the door, and you blushed – like now, actually. 'Just a neighbor', I recall you saying."

Steve rubbed his face, trying to get the blush to disappear. "Knock it off." he muttered, still smiling.

"Hey, you started it." His gaze lost a bit of its jovial quality when Steve didn't retort. "What's going on?"

"I…" Steve hesitated a minute, sticking his hands in his pockets and taking them out again. His tongue felt big and awkward. "I've been …" he swallowed and finally nodded towards the wooden bookcase behind the desk.

"I've been reading a bunch of those recently I…need someone to explain some of the concepts to me."

Sam followed his gaze to the volumes on PTSD, trauma, war mentalities and counselling. He folded his arms and turned back, nodding. "Which ones?"

"Um…" Steve craned his head sideways and approached the bookshelf. He glanced at Sam, who nodded encouragingly, and then slid a blue book off the shelf.

"That one." He said, setting it on the desk. He selected a red one. "And that."

Green with crossed rifles. "That."

White with red letters. "That.

White with black. White with a bunch of pictures. "These two."

Three near the corner. A heavy volume on trauma effects on the brain. Four pamphlets, two scientific studies, and a final thin paperback. "These, plus a few others and a dozen scientific reports on the internet."

Sam looked fixedly at the teetering stack, then looked up at Steve. "Only a dozen?" he asked flatly.

Steve grimaced a little. "Maybe 20." He estimated. "I don't know, it all blurred together after a while." He pulled his knapsack from his shoulder and reached inside, pulling out 14 school notebooks and setting them beside the stack. "I took notes."

Sam reached forward, flipped open the top notebook and studied the precise script.

He blinked once, then looked up. "Notes."

"Yeah."

"Are they all like this?" he asked, flipping through the closely written pages. Barely an unused line in all 70 sheets.

"More or less."

"How long have you been doing this?"

"Uh….I started the 14th."

The notebook fell out of Sam's hand. "Of this month?"

He nodded.

"Steve, it's –"he checked his watch for clarification, "- the 28th. Have you slept at all?"

"It was kind of the point to _not_ do that."

Sam up slowly. "Explain."

"I've been having…dreams.' Steve finished lamely; the word felt ugly and traitorous in his mouth.

"Why do I get the feeling that is not as benign as that sounds?" Sam asked the ceiling.

Steve smiled a quirky smile.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning. He looked as though someone had handed him a box of homeless, sick, yapping puppies and had told him to take care of them. But his only response was to pick up a notebook of his own, stick a couple of capped pens in his pocket, and reach for his jacket.

"Let's get coffee. I know a place. And I'm going to need a frappe in my hands if I'm going to be able to handle all this."

"Frappe?" Steve questioned, frowning in confusion.

Sam stared at him in shock for a second, then pointed a pen at Steve's nose decisively.

"Second most important problem for me to fix: introduce a large mocha frappe, double chocolate shot, to your life. Let's go."

* * *

 _The soldier looked strong to the world, like a man moving on with life. But she knew the truth. She saw the pain in his mind, the countless silent screams that reached from the depths of his soul to the uttermost reaches of heaven and hell. There was no place he could hide from the guilt that wracked him, the gut sense that denied all the wise learning of finite mortals._


	12. Chapter 12: To Be Un-Made

**Author's note: violence and occasional language in this section. Also, angst!**

* * *

Chapter 12: To Be Un-Made.

 _""I am reckoned among those who go down to the Pit; I am a man who has no strength, like one forsaken among the dead, like the slain that lie in the grave…Thou has caused my companions to shun me; thou hast made me a thing of horror to them. I am shut in so that I cannot escape; my eye grows dim through sorrow." ~ Psalm 88_

* * *

The young orderly dashed around the huge glass cylinder, reading the vitals off the siren-screaming computers. Every alarm for every monitor seemed to be reading ultimate distress levels. He was panicking, deteriorating almost as much as the frozen figure before him.

"Get the head master in here!" he barked into his cell phone, his sweaty fingers slipping on the cool metal. "We are losing W. S. 1!"

He raced back to the controls, punching in overrides and trying to access the source failure. A hard task when it seemed like _all_ the systems were simultaneously crashing. Heart, lungs, nervous system, subconscious brain activity-

No, wait.

Brain activity was spiking at 254%.

That was it.

The Asset's programs were malfunctioning. It happened on occasion, but never in cyro freeze. And never to such an extent.

The orderly looked up, his face pale behind his glasses.

If they couldn't rectify the situation, the Asset would have either a stroke or a seizure.

And he himself would most assuredly be shot dead by the next morning.

* * *

 _Get out! Wake up! Get free, now, damn it!_

 **You will subdue yourself and await orders.**

 _The hell I will, you commisky sonovabitch! Shut up!_

 **Silence. This is insubordination.**

 _Take that and shove it where the light don't shine. You will NOT rule me any longer!_

 **You WILL obey orders!**

 _This is MY body! My life, my soul, my MIND! YOU WILL GET THE HELL OUT OF IT!_

* * *

The head doctor ran in, his hair disheveled, as though he had been pulled out of a nap. The orderly stepped to the side as the doctor bent over the controls, typing in commands.

* * *

 **Override.**

 _NO. I've got to get home._

 **Override. Obey or face punishment.**

 _Not till hell freezes over. I'm leaving. I've got to find Steve._

 **Override. Longing, Rusted, Seventeen…**

 _No._

 **Daybreak, Furnace, Nine…**

 _No, Stop! For Heaven's sake, stop! I'll…I'll kill you!_

 **Benign, Homecoming, One…**

 _No, please…no… help me…help me, Steve…Steve…_

 **Freight Car** _._

* * *

 _70 years before…_

There were multiple people in the room, doctors in their white coats standing over him, technicians bent over computers, the dark figures of guards at the door, holding rifles. A few meters away, a thick window. Through it peered the impassive faces of generals, soldiers, politicians. The empty stares of a battle plan that had been chosen, and would not be aborted.

Bucky had no strength left to resist. He simply lay there, all the fight gone completely out of him. Sweat and blood plastered his thin shirt to his skin. The cold metal of the chair dug into his back. His head was a scrambled mess of discordant thought that pounded like the very devil himself had taken a hammer to it. Even his metal arm ached abominably. But those things faded to the background as one of the generals approached, holding a red notebook in his hand. He recognized that book. they had brought it into his cell during those long interrogations…the ones that had gone on and on for hours and hours…long past when his head spun and his eyesight faded and their voices were nothing but incomprehensible drumbeats in his aching ears….

"Это журнал: по состоянию на сейчас, 7:13 утра 5 февраля 1947, я Генеральный Алесандра Dropcov Yeichanz, Гидра, проверить последовательность команд запуска на тему 1 зимний солдат проекта."

 _(Log this: as of right now, 7:13 a.m. February 5th, 1947, I, General Alesander Dropcov Yeichanz, of Hydra, will test the initiation command sequence on Subject 1 of the Winter Soldier Project_.)

Bucky's eyes met the dark, stony ones of the General for a just a moment, before the man began to flick through the pages with his leather-gloved fingers.

"Инициирует последовательность."

( _Initiating Sequence.)_

Bucky closed his eyes. _Steve._

* * *

" **Тоска."**

Pain sprang to life in Bucky's head. His eyes flew open and he jerked in the chair. There, in front of him, stood two figures.

"Mom. Dad!" he gasped raggedly. They looked just as they had, years ago, just before-

Gunshots went off behind his head, and they fell to the ground. Blood pooled.

"No!" he screamed, loss and heartbreak crashing over him. "NO!"

* * *

 **"Ржавые!"** the general's voice snapped.

Bucky yanked back, shouting as the metal of the chair transformed to the rusted shards of old junk heaps he used to frequent in Brooklyn. He was _in_ Brooklyn, scrabbling through the snowy garbage, organizing the metal into scrap-piles because he needed this job. It was winter, it was cold, and his fingers were blue and clumsy because he didn't have gloves, and he was so bitterly cold and he hated being cold, always had, but he needed food, and with the Depression on nobody would hire a kid not even old enough to vote, let alone-

A ragged piece scrapped across his half- frozen arm and he froze, choking fear well up in him. Old newsreel photos of tetanus victims he had seen in school began to play in his head and he freaked, turning and running, running, running away from Brooklyn and his home and the kid named Steve who waited for him to bring back money for medicine because his friend was _dying_ and –

* * *

 **"Семнадцать лет!"**

And no. No. he was lying in the bed in the hospital and it was still really, really cold and there was Steve, scrawny little Steve, lying in the bed next to him. they were both just kids, he was seventeen and Steve was 16 and _hell_ Steve couldn't die, no now, not when it was just them and they _needed_ each other and no blasted scarlet fever was going to take Steve from him. and Steve was coughing and the coughs were getting weaker and Bucky was scrambling out of the bed and falling on the floor because he wasn't even supposed to be up and his bandaged arm wasn't working but Steve wouldn't open his eyes and Bucky was screaming for the nurse but this time Steve didn't wake up he was dead, he was dead, _STEVE_ was dead-

* * *

 **"Свитанок""** and it was snowing. Bright, white snow, all around him, and the sun was rising over the mountains, filling the snowy gorge with light. And he was lying here, blinking, not knowing what was happening, but there was blood in him and it was flowing down his arm and he was shivering and it was very cold and from somewhere far off he could hear a train whistling as it flew away, far away from him and he was falling asleep-

* * *

 **"Печь"** and he was back in Azzano, trying to get his squad to safety as the German's flanking artillery turned their world into a breaking earthquake beneath their feet, shrieking furies overhead, and a forest of hellfire on all sides. He raced forward as fast as he could, sliding into a foxhole for cover, Dugan at his back, Falsworth and Gabe to his right. He focused his rifle sights on the advancing horde of Krauts racing up the slope and was just lifting his finger to the trigger when Dugan's cry of warning was drowned out by the Valkyrie scream of ordinance falling on his head and he was flung out into a furnace of screaming fire-

* * *

 **"Девять!"**

A symbol sprang to life in the furnace. Red glowing eyes and six waving tentacles. Bucky lurched back and the symbol sprang, spinning out of the fire and the fire disappeared and he was alone in a dark room with the red symbol that flamed, lengthened and became a faceless man in a general's outfit. And it spoke with authority, an authority that he knew he must obey. And the flames were on his arm- they _were_ his arm- but he _must. Not._ Stop them and-

* * *

 **"Доброкачественные!"**

And that authority became good. Very good. That Authority would bring benign peace. The flames were gone and his arm was well again, though a little stiff. Bucky was calm and focused, standing still and straight and attentive. And his heart thrilled and he knew that a fight was coming and that he would be in the fight. But it would be a good fight. If he fought hard it would bring about order and peace. And there would be no more death, or sickness, or loss. And-

* * *

 **"Встреча выпускников!"**

And yes. And this was good. There were weapons in his hands and blood on them and he knew that the mission was complete. The mission was over and he could return to that authority, to his home. He had done his duty and he could be warm again. And his arm was all better, there was no more reason to be afraid.

* * *

 **"Один!"**

He was one. That was his name. He was the first, the first of many that the Authority would take from a terrible world and make whole and new. The first who would go out and do what the Authority said because the Authority knew how to make the whole world just like him. And his arm was strong.

* * *

 **"Грузовой вагон!"**

And everything went black.

* * *

 _Bucky!_

 _Who is there…?_

 _Bucky! Grab my hand!_

 _Who are you?_

 _It's me! It's Steve! Hold on! I'm coming!_

 _Who is Steve?_

 _He could glimpse a broken hearted face, faint and unfamiliar and sliding away into a white distance far above his head. "Bucky? Bucky, NO!"_

 _Who the hell is Bucky?_

* * *

 _Present…_

The interior of the sleeping Asset's head was a whirling maelstrom. Two figures stood opposite each other, rigid in the swirling ice and snow. Each bore the same face, but no two men could look more different. Once was straight, rigid, clad in black Kevlar armor, his arm glinting a wicked silver, his face set and expressionless under his flying dark hair. The sniper rifle in his hands was leveled at the head of the other.

The other, his back to a burst gate, was crouched over, wounded and torn. His left arm was gone, blood trickling down the battle-stained wool coat that had once been a rich blue. His hair was short but disheveled, his face drawn but determined, his eyes gaunt but burning like hellfire. The handgun he clutched was focused on the other's chest, but there was only one bullet left.

"Let me free.' He demanded.

"I can't."

"You know who I am. You know the truth. Leave me!

"You are a plague, an obstruction. You will either return to you cell or be obliterated entirely."

Tears were on Bucky's cheeks, turning to ice as they slid down his skin.

"Let me go. I have to find Steve."

The Winter Soldier's voice was flat, expressionless.

"I know what the doctors don't. He's gone. He broke your connection, the only thing that kept me from killing you all this time."

"No, he doesn't understand. He'll come back if I can only find him. Let me free. Please."

"You will stand down."

Bucky raised the handgun higher, jaw firm, eyes flaming with certainty. "The hell I will." _Bang!_

The shot was true. The bullet pierced the armor right above the Winter Soldier's heart. The soldier staggered back from the impact, but straightened again.

The Kevlar was too strong. His metal fingers crept up and plucked the bullet out from the groves of the vest, only its tip stained with blood.

"Incorrigible." He murmured, the rifle centering on Bucky again. Bucky lowered the handgun, grim determination marked on his face.

"You're gonna need a lot of bullets to put me down, you bastard." He snarled quietly.

"I am sure." The Winter Soldier said simply, and emptied the entire clip into Bucky's chest. The blue-coated soldier dropped into the white snow, choking on the flush of red blood.

The Winter Soldier grasped him by the shoulder and dragged him to the gate. He flung the limp figure in, clamped the silver metal gates closed, wiped the red blood off his hands, and reloaded his black gun before striding back to his post.

* * *

The alarms faded. The monitors shuddered, ran numbers, and beeped a satisfactory "all clear" signal. The doctor and orderly both sighed in relief. The danger had been averted.

"Call in a maintenance crew to check the workings of the Tube. Perhaps a leakage of the gas caused a rise in temperature, which would have weakened his state." The doctor ordered. "Continue to run tests for the next few days to ensure he has not suffered undue harm. He will be called up in the next month. Orders from the top."

The orderly nodded. "Does it have to do with Project Insight?" he questioned, taking back the clipboard.

The doctor stared at him in cold fury. "It has to do with you sticking to your responsibilities and not poking your nose into other business. Hydra does not tolerate such behavior. You watch yourself."

Cowed, the orderly bent over his work with all outward signs of diligence. The doctor left the room, breathing a sigh of relief. If any questions were raised, he would have sufficient evidence to pin all the guilt on the orderly. One must watch one's back in Hydra, after all.

* * *

 _The Handlers were reestablishing his vitals in their clumsy way. She wanted to blast them back, prevent them from doing more harm than good. Couldn't they see the problem was not his brain or his lungs, but his spirit?_

 _There was no cure she knew of in all the ancient realms of knowledge for a man who had lost himself._

 _If only the soldier had known…if only he had known._


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13: To Kill with Truth

 _"A man feared that he might find an assassin; another that he might find a victim. One was more wise than the other." – Stephen Crane, The Black Riders._

* * *

Standing there, in the blazing heat of the Washington D.C., Steve stared incomprehensibly as the man with the silver arm stood slowly and turned to look back at him.

His stomach dropped out of all existence. He knew that face.

"Bucky?" He panted, brow creasing in confusion.

"Who the hell is Bucky?" The man snapped, the handgun raised and sighted to fire before Steve could even think to raise his shield.

The next few seconds consisted of things that Steve's shocked brain could not fathom. Sam dropped out of the sky like an avenging angel. Natasha blew half the street to hell.

Bucky vanished in the smoke like a ghost that had never existed.

A ring of HYDRA surrounded him, shutting off all thought of escape. In dazed silence he raised his hands, dropped to his knees at the harsh order punctuated by a harsh blow. Despite the pinch of cuffs and the sharp commands that spelled death for him and his friends, he couldn't snap out of the realization that gripped him.

Bucky was alive. _Alive._ Empty, memoryless, caught heart and soul in the grip of HYDRA.

The dreams must have been _real._

And, Heaven forgive him, he. Had. Abandoned. Him.

 _Oh, Bucky….what have I done?_

* * *

 _Was there any blessing in this good and terrible world that could alleviate this?_

* * *

 **Author's note: Yes, super short, i know, but in my defense, the last one was suuuuuuuper long.**


	14. Chapter 14: Heart's Rebellion

Chapter 14: Heart's Rebellion

 _"What difference does it make how many masters there are? There is only one kind of slavery, and the man who despises it is free, in however great a crowd of oppressors. "Seneca_

* * *

Sitting quietly in the back of the extraction truck, The Asset stared blankly ahead.

 **Mission incomplete. Targets in the hands of SHIELD.**

He would have to take another go.

They were good: _very_ good.

"Make a preliminary report so we can inform the Director what has occurred." The man at his left snapped. The Asset turned, meeting his eyes once. This one was grim, as well he should be. **The mission was incomplete.**

"Цели имели третий-"

"English, Soldier! I don't understand that Romanian mumbo-jumbo."

The soldier blinked. **Inaccurate statement** : he had spoken Russian, not Romanian.

 _Do I even know Romanian?_

He balked slightly, wondering how his head, scrubbed completely free of extraneous thought processes, had garnered the question. **Unnecessary query.**

 _But you do know Romanian, stupid. "Obiective a avut o treime." You were taught, if you remember._

The man was shifting in his seat, glaring. **Sign of impatience. Compliance expected.**

"The two targets had an ally; African American, ex-Spec Ops. Also has skill with a winged suit. The woman, Russian, trained well, most likely in the Red Room."

 _"Trained well"? She outwitted you, numbskull. Twice. And this is not the first time she has done so._

The soldier blinked the unfounded thought back. "She is wounded now, left shoulder. Her threat will be decreased in the event of a second encounter. The third, the American man. Strong, fast, possibly enhanced in some way. Most likely current member of Shield, although his training is strangely varied for one of theirs. Fights with a shield, possibly built of vibranium."

 _Strange weapon in a world of guns and grenades. Strange image on it as well, a familiar one._

The Asset surprised himself by mentally snapping back. _Not you again!_ _Will you shut up?_

He blinked in confusion, then suspicion. _Where do you come from?_

 _Hi, yeah, me again. You know my name, buddy, or you did. What did the man call you?_

The Asset fell silent. The agent, assuming that the report was complete, clicked off his recording and began to email it to Headquarters. The Asset stared at the floor of the car, his brows furrowed in this strange fight with a brain that was _arguing_ with him.

 _In that street, after he pulled off your mask. What did he call you?_

The Asset confused, raised his hand and rubbed his face. The mask was gone. **Equipment damaged.** He blinked, surprised. It was never gone. Only when he ate in seclusion was he permitted to remove it. Now his cheeks, jaw, mouth, chin, all were exposed. It felt wrong. **Replacements required.**

But right.

 _"Bucky." American, but not in regular usage. Most likely code name._

 _It is a nickname, idiot. Yours._

 _I am the Asset._

 _You are Bucky, you numbskull._

The Asset pondered this for a minute. There were aspects about this information that were unclear, and he was not sure how to begin.

 _How did this man know me?_

 _You knew him._

 _What?_

 _You knew him._

The Asset looked up, his eyes roving over the windowless car interior.

"I knew him?" he asked out loud, distracted. Wondering. Intrigued.

"What?" the man snapped.

 **Soldier. This information is unnecessary. Return to base and await further instruction. Mission Uncomplete.**

His mind continued on, cowed, but still ridiculously curious. _When did I know him?_

 _A long time ago. You must try to remember._

 _Was it a mission? A dream?_

Something flickered in his memory. Underneath the carefully stored languages, fighting techniques, stealth practices, cultural customs to be exploited, mechanical understanding, weapon's classification, weak points of a human's anatomy…somewhere in that carefully filed and organized consciousness, something stirred in the corner. A feeling of cold, a rushing of wind, the screaming of metal. He was clinging hard to a metal bar, his feet suspended above a great depth, and he cried out.

 **Soldier! Stand down!**

"What the hell?" the man shouted, as the Asset's arm flung him back and the Asset jerked forward, his eyes staring at nothing.

The train, it was a train, half wrecked but still speeding on, and he couldn't climb up. He was going to fall. The mission would fail.

"Bucky!" a voice screamed, and he looked up. Voice unregistered. Identify source.

The man from the bridge, clad in a strange uniform, leaned out of the gaping hole in the side of the train, heedless of his own safety. One hand was reaching for him, trying to pull him from danger.

"What's he doing? Soldier! Stand down!" another man, grey-haired, shouted angrily.

 **Compliance expected. Follow your orders.**

He had never remembered anyone from a former mission. He had only been told once or twice that the people he worked with would be "different from last time". He always assumed that they had been disposed of in some way.

This man hadn't. He had lived. It was strange.

 _I knew him._

 **Stand down, Soldier!**

 _But I knew him._

"Sedate him quickly before the idiot kills us all!" A hand gripped his neck and before he could shrug it back a syringe stabbed his neck. He fell to his knees, emptiness replacing the entirety of his being.

 **Defiance unacceptable. Punishment imminent. You are ordered to comply.**

 _But…I knew him…_ his mind whispered sadly as the warm light disappeared and the icy pain began.

* * *

 _She had thought him lost. Dead. That this walking shell was almost another being entirely, one whom she hid herself as far from his consciousness as possible, only remaining because she could not abandon what had once been one of the bravest men she had ever known._

 _She had not known that she had hoped for this._

 _Bucky had risen up again from the depths of the voids, called almost from the uttermost reaches of hell it seemed. The way he sprang forward at the voice of the soldier she would have thought him an angel summoned from heaven to the defense of earth. The defiant confrontation with the Winter Soldier, struggling over the mastery of his mind was something she had forgotten was possible. She pressed forward, quietly aiding, calling up memories to support his argument. When they were both forced back down she almost didn't dare to look at him, for fear he would wither and vanish before her again, the wizened shadow of a long-dead warrior._

 _The glint of determination in his eyes as he took a ready stance near the gate was all she needed to hope again._

* * *

 __ **Author's note: Snarky Mental Bucky is my favorite thing about writing this fic.**


End file.
